


when is a monster not a monster? oh, when you love it

by vipereyed



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, POV Multiple, So much angst, the targaryens are pretty much the real housewives of westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/pseuds/vipereyed
Summary: “Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame.”





	1. i. ned

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is the first fic i have planned of many in this 'verse. i will add the series tag...eventually, but a lot of the rest is outlined. the title is from Caitlyn Siehls "start here"; summary quote is from Richard Siken; chapter quote is from Lord Byron. i dont own anything besides the sweat, tears, and sleepless nights i spend writing this!  
> enjoy!! (plz??)

**_”No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell.” – Lord Byron  
_**

  **i. NED**

The first raven came almost twenty years ago.

No matter how many years had passed since Robert’s Rebellion, Ned Stark felt as though the mark that would bear permanently on his soul was not the loss of his father and brother at the hands of the Mad Dragon, nor losing his best friend since boyhood as a casualty of the very war he created; of course, those losses left him a changed man, damaged in the inexplicable way that only soldiers can relate to, but the weight of them did not crush his very _being_ the way others did.

Not while he still remembered Jon Waters, though it was doubtful he could ever forget, even when age would eat away his brain.

After all this time, Ned still pictured it like he had just met the babe yesterday – a mop of black curls,  the ghost of a frown etching wispy brows, the sharp, straight Stark nose and those _eyes_ : a dark violet that bordered on grey enough that Ned convinced himself that he could be fooled. That it wasn’t true – a mummers farce, merely.

But gods be damned, he _knew,_  he knew and paid the price for it.

And so he had rode away from the Tower still congested by the smell of blood and roses,  a babe on his arm named after the second father he had lost and wondering how in the seven hells was he going to explain this to Cat. It would sour the marriage if she thought him to be unfaithful, and yet his entire family would likely be killed if the secret got out. There were eyes and ears everywhere, and all it would take was a particularly observant pair for the information to get into the wrong hands.

He had almost come to terms with it, potentially ruining any blossoming love in his marriage. He had given his word, and so he would protect this child’s life, any notions of love and marriage be damned. Surely the sin of deceit in this case was a small one.

Three days later, the sellswords (some whispered they were Dornish brutes, or faceless men, while Rodrik Cassel swore they were from the Golden Company) stole the babe away on the Prince’s dime.

The letter came not long after that without any identifying sigil. Howland held it by the tips of his fingers like it was wrought with poison, but Ned knew who it was from right away.

_“Lord Stark. I extend my thanks for your care, but the time has come to take back what is rightfully mine. With the recovery of our nation after such tragic events, I trust that I did not need to do so with the wrath of blood. It will be most unfortunate if you should come to make me regret this decision.”_

* * *

 

The second time Ned Stark receives the letter, he isn’t more prepared than the first.

“My lord.” Maester Luwin’s voice floats from the other side of the door, a soft knock accompanying the words. Ned sighs and rises carefully from the bed, trying not to rouse his sleeping wife.

“Come in, Maester Luwin.”

“My lord, a raven has arrived from the capital. It’s addressed to you, from Prince Rhaegar himself.”

Ned curses, a low thing. Catelyn shifts next to him, bleary eyes flitting from her husband to the maester in their bedchambers.  He sighs, suddenly feeling the familiar ache flare up in his chest.

“Hand it to me.”  It’s official this time, stamped with the House Targaryen seal, the red dragon bleeding onto the parchment in such pigmented rivulets one might think it was real blood.

Ned reads, careful to keep his breathing controlled and his face impassive even if he wants to tear the bloody thing to shreds and ride out to Kings Landing at that very moment. He swallows a sigh and turns to Catelyn, whose face is awakened with a cautious curiosity.

“Prince Rhaegar,” he begins roughly, and gods, do not let this be the moment he cracks in anger. Do not let this be the moment the undignified angry tears fall. He pauses. “Prince Rhaegar writes to invite us to…Jaehaerys Waters’ twentieth nameday tourney.” 

“And?” Cat is looking at him, her face equal parts anxiety and hysteria. He can practically see her mind racing with worst-case scenarios that have been brewing since he told her the story of the Prince’s son.

“He wants Sansa to be betrothed to…to his son. To Jo—Jaehaerys.”

Ned is dimly aware of Luwin closing the door softly behind him, not wanting to further intrude on their privacy. He watches the emotions play out on his wife’s face – shock, awe, anger, confusion.

“What are you going to do?” Her voice shakes from barely constrained anger. She chooses not to look at him, instead focusing on picking a loose thread on her smallclothes.

“We cannot deny the Prince, Catelyn, or the king. We did that once and look where it lead—“

“So you expect to marry our girl to the family who killed your brother and father, Eddard? Who killed Brandon? The sins of the forefather are not those of the son but by the seven, Ned, he’s a _bastard_! Do you not see this slight for the humiliation that it is?” Catelyn gritted out, her face dark.

“Cat—“ He began, but she held up a hand and interrupted him. When she spoke, her voice shook with tears or fury, he did not know.

“You will be the one to tell her, Ned. You know how Sansa is. She dreams of a knight and a castle, not a…not _this_. You will tell her, and explain exactly why we need to go along with this.” With that, he watched as his wife heaved a sigh before rolling over to face away from him.

That night, Ned found the room thick with the smell of blood and roses, kept awake by the haunting of promises he could not keep.


	2. ii. sansa

**_“I strain my heart, I stretch my hands. I catch at hope.” – Christina Rossetti_**

  **ii. SANSA**

The morning that would change Sansa Stark’s life forever started out typically.

She had gained a sort of talent; though she was not quite naive enough to call it a sixth sense like Old Nan would, to perceive when news of a life-altering event would be delivered.  As a child, the hushed whispering that surrounded Winterfell was easy enough confirmation of such happenings; Sansa was always aware that there were certain…aspects of life, _delicacies_ , her septa called them, that were simply not something a lady should concern herself with. That didn’t stop her from overhearing concerned murmurs regarding deaths, or politics, or her lady aunt Lysa’s precarious state of mind. As she grew older, she was able to recognize the tensions in the castle and brace herself for whenever her mother would see fit to deliver the news to her – a lady, after all, is _never_ nosey and does not fret over matters that do not concern her.

It was almost predictable, really. Sansa woke up to the winter sunlight streaming through her curtains, suppressing a snort as Arya groaned at the intrusive sun. She combed her hair till it shone, opting not to fuss with it, and barely convincing her sister in allowing her to take the treacherous comb to her own wild locks. Sansa could almost feel her younger sister roll her eyes as she looked over herself in the mirror, pleased with her choice of gown.

“Sevens, Sansa, it’s breakfast.”

“Pardon me for wanting to look presentable, Arya. You could learn a thing or two from it,” she shot back, looking over Arya’s own ‘gown’ – a mud-brown atrocity that Sansa, their mother, and even Septa Mordane have tried to dispose of for at least three years now. There was no heat behind the words. Sansa had learned long ago that it was not worth changing her sister, and loved her in the way that only sisters can, though she had also accepted she would probably never fully understand the wild being that was Arya.

“Whatever, Sans. Let’s just get on with it, yeah? Before Rickon eats all the bacon again.”

Barely restraining her snort this time, Sansa took Arya’s arm and together they went to join the rest of the household in the Great Hall.

 

* * *

 Breakfast proved to be an interesting affair.

Conversation between her parents and her siblings was stilted; it was not for a lack of trying, though, as blissfully unaware Bran and Rickon seemed, trying in earnest to stimulate lively discussions of knights and tourneys. It wasn’t until Theon made some story about taking the boys to hunt did Sansa begin to feel unease creep into her belly – charismatic with barely concealed arrogance, her father’s ward has never proven to be particularly enthusiastic about interacting with the younger children, or anyone who isn’t being pursued by him.

“Sansa,” her mother begins, voice tight, and Sansa finds that her mother’s eyes are shining bright with unshed tears. _Oh, gods._ “There is…something you must know.”

A million fears take their sharp root in Sansa’s mind as she tries to wrap her head around this. Could Lord Hoster Tully have passed on?  No, surely she would have known earlier, and oh, maybe it’s her aunt Lysa, so delicate and all alone in the Eyrie—

“Sansa, sweetling.” Her father’s voice cuts through her panic and all Sansa finds she can do is stare. The daughter of Catelyn Stark to her core, she armors herself in her icy refinement.

She stares, not even moving an eyebrow as her father proceeds to inform her that her betrothal to handsome, sweet, funny Dickon Tarly has been broken. That in his stead she will marry the Silver Prince’s son, Jaehaerys Waters.

A bastard. She’s going to marry a bastard.

Her father could not even bother to marry her to a legitimized prince. Could not sell his daughter for queenhood instead of destining her to…whatever this will be.

Sansa does not make a sound, expression imperceptible until her shaking hands cause her teacup to spill over onto her dress and she shrieks in pain as the amber liquid burns through the fabrics onto her thigh. Her mother rushes to help her at once but Sansa quiets her, holding a slender hand up. She needs this, she realizes,  she needs to feel the pain. Needs to feel some type of distraction from the fact that her father has essentially _sold_ his eldest daughter to the Prince’s bastard son.

Distraction from the fact that she would prettily oblige, of course, as was her duty. Her expectation. Arya could be wildfire, trying to defy odds and break boundaries of a world that was never made to cater to her, but not you – never you.

“Sansa,” her mother’s voice implores, voice cracking. Sansa can see tear stains on her cheeks and wonders how long her mother’s known.

Rising from the table, Sansa sighs and meets them head on. “Mother, Father,” she murmurs, shaking Arya’s  attempt at a comforting hand off her shoulder. “Pardon me, but I am quite tired. I think I will retire to my chambers now.” 

Ignoring the glances of her family, Sansa left the dining hall in a flourish without so much as a backwards glance, looking every inch the queen she knew she never would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for my absence! between work, life, and halloween festivities i have been quite busy but after this i shall adhere to a regular updating schedule! thank you so much for the comments, and please comment on this one too! i hope u enjoy!


	3. iii. viserys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for language and threats of violence.

  _ **"Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough."**_

**\- Jean-Paul Satre**

iii. VISERYS

   
Dinner was a quiet and tense affair, save for the occasional scraping of cutlery against porcelain and calling for goblets of wine to be refilled.

Flanked between his father and his sister, Viserys seethed.

The meal that had been prepared for them today – a Dornish curry of some sort, orange and soupy, was no doubt the product of _her_ return from Dorne. Truthfully, the offending dish wasn’t terrible and Viserys had eaten it begrudgingly loads of times, but he was beginning to grow tired of _her_ influence over his brother.

Elia had returned from a lengthy excursion in Sunspear and had not come back empty handed. The True Dragon had received copious jewels and enough wine to last the winter; his foolish brother was gifted strongwine, foreign spices, and silk robes, and Elia had given Daenerys a small wardrobe of Dornish gowns.

Even the bastard had been given something – a small statue of some sort, and had intelligently mumbled an awkward ‘thank you’ at the gift.

Viserys had predictably received nothing.

Indeed, he was able to see through the Princess now. To have them eat her food was one thing, but to dress his sister like a common whore on the streets of Dorne was another. That was more than a slight on his family.

Daenerys was enraptured with the gown, if it could be called that; a short black blouse which revealed her midriff, a skirt, and a gauzy, blood-red, bejeweled shawl to cover it was not Viserys’ idea of how a noblewoman – more than that, the rightful Princess to the Seven Kingdoms – should dress.

Though he supposed it wasn’t her fault, since their mother was not given the chance to raise his sister and as a result, she was an easily indulged girl, left to be raised by his brother’s wife. He still remembered returning to the Red Keep after his mother’s passing. Already a mother twice over by then, Elia had tried with Viserys too, but he rebuffed her each time until she eventually ceased. He snarled at the memory. If she _really_ wanted to try, she should have put more efforts into satisfying his fool of a brother so he would not have been tempted to run off with the Stark bitch. Maybe then his mother would still be alive.

“Viserys?” His sweet sister’s voice cut through his thoughts, a welcome distraction. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Viserys hissed, hoping to end the discussion before it escalated into matters he did not wish to discuss. His palm stung, and he noticed he had been clenching his fist. Small crescents dotted the white flesh.

Dany frowned, and looked like she was considering her words carefully. Sweet girl, didn’t she ever know when to shut up? “You were—oh!” She sucked in a breath as he pinched her thigh, hard, under the table.

Finally, she was quiet.

From the head of the table – his father’s rightful seat, where that disgrace most certainly did not belong – Rhaegar cleared his throat and all eyes dutifully turned to him.

In his youth, Viserys had been enraptured by his brother. He was without a doubt the most handsome man in the realm, and just as much of a warrior too. When he had ran off with the Stark bitch, Viserys was afraid his brother would die if the Starks caught him.

When he brought back the bastard, further shaming their family, Viserys was furious. The fury never subsided, only festered.

“I believe we have some…important matters to discuss,” Rhaegar drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. Next to him, Elia put her hand on his arm and smiled at him prettily in encouragement while Rhaenys and Aegon looked at their father with identical expressions of disinterest.

They never had to fight for anything, those two, and Viserys would one day find a way to make them _feel_ —

“Jaehaerys,” Rhaegar’s voice cut through his thoughts and Viserys stiffened at the name. In yet another fit of embarrassment to the family, his brother had decided to bestow the bastard with a Targaryen name. It was necessary, he said, in order to assuage any potential inklings of a Stark retaliation while further assimilating the boy into his role. A shame, since Viserys had rather liked the name Jon – plebeian and base. Fit for a bastard.

At the end of the table, the bastard put his fork down slowly, raising his eyes to his father in a silent affirmation to continue.

“As you are aware, your twentieth nameday tourney is soon. It is rather…unseemly for a man your age to remain unmarried for so long, but recently we have found a suitable prospect.”

“What?” Viserys snorted at the intelligent reply, keeping his eyes on his nephew as he fumbled for his next words. “I don’t…I don’t want to marry anyone.”

The scraping of his father’s talon-like nails against porcelain reminded Viserys he was even still awake. The True Dragon shifted next to him, yellowing teeth bared in a snarl. “You don’t want to be married?” He repeated softly before laughing mirthlessly. “Some gall you have, boy. My imbecile of a son brought you into this house, given you _everything_. You would be nothing without us, bastard, and you dare to insult us? To throw everything we’ve given you back in our faces, as though you haven’t sullied the Targaryen name enough? If I had my way you would be burned, just like your uncles, just like your bitch of a mother should have--!”

“Pycelle!” Rhaegar’s voice cut through their father’s rant. His father was shaking, Viserys noticed. “My father would like to be taken to his rooms, now. He is very tired. Perhaps you can administer him some of the spiced wine he prefers.”

The Grandmaester winced and began to coax Aerys from the room, in doing so becoming the brunt of his new rant. Served the bumbling fool right, Viserys thought. He knew he could count on his father to voice his opinion on the matter.

Jaehaerys was very still. Dany was shaking imperceptibly. Even Elia and her spawn looked put out by the outburst.

Rhaegar took a long sip from his goblet before continuing. “While that was not the way I would have said it, we have given you everything, Jaehaerys. Your name. Your upbringing. I’m afraid I do not need your consent in the matter, as your betrothed and her family will be in attendance for your tourney. Indeed, it may even be pleasant, as to my knowledge you are familiar with your goodfather and goodmother already.”

“What?”

From the other side of the table, Aegon snorted this time. “My dear brother,” he began, the edges of a smirk toying on his lips. “Are there any other words you know besides what? You may have to woo this new wife of yours, you know.”

At that, Rhaenys stifled a laugh. Elia elbowed her and narrowed her eyes at her son.

Jaehaerys’ jaw worked and Viserys noted with glee that he was upset. “Who is it?”

Rhaegar’s eyes glittered like knives. “I must say that Eddard Stark is a man who knows an offer he cannot refuse.”

“You…you can’t make me do that, Father.”

How petulant, Viserys thought. He cast violet eyes towards his nephew, the familiar sensation of warm anger coursing through his body. “You don’t want to marry her, then? Rather steal her away and create another bastard, would you?” He sneered, not caring about whether it insulted Jaehaerys or his brother more. Let the both of their pride suffer, for all he cared.

Jaehaerys’ jaw worked again in barely concealed anger, but Rhaegar brought his fist down on the table before he could respond.

“Enough, Viserys,” he snapped, violet eyes so much like Viserys’ own boring into his. “I should remind you that your own betrothed will be there as well, and if you have any wits about you, you will not behave in such a way in front of the Lady Arianne.”

Viserys’ mouth opened and shut, trying to come up with a response. There was no way his father would have thought to marry his youngest heir to a Martell over his own daughter like the Targaryens of old had done. This idea was not one of his father's own volition; no, this reeked of another scheme to further debase their family. His brother was playing a dangerous game. 

Rhaegar gave his younger brother a cool smile as Viserys stood up and stalked out of the dining hall, black velvet robes flowing behind him. It was unfair that such an embarrassment was next in line for the throne, especially when he was hardly a dragon.

Viserys, however, was a true dragon. Perhaps even the last of them. He would come up with a plan, he told himself, as he stalked back to his quarters.

And Rhaegar would pay dearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always appreciated! i also based dornish culture off my own. it was a bit hard to get into viserys' head in this chapter, he gave me a bit of a hard time :)


	4. iiii. jon

**“Don’t be afraid to suffer; return that heaviness to the earth’s own weight; heavy are the mountains, heavy the seas.”** **— Rainer Maria Rilke**

**iiii. JON**

A clanging of swords filled the air of the courtyard, steel kissing steel in a crazed dance that was almost elegant for the way the bearers weaved reverently against each other, lost in and intoxicated by their own concentration.  The metals hissed as they met each other head on, the hiss turning into a near-shriek as they drew back just as quickly what seemed like only a fraction later.

Jon braced himself for the impact before he hit the ground and bit his tongue to avoid groaning as his body made contact with the dirt. He had already lost; he would not disgrace himself further by crying out as a lesser man would. Being faced with the tip of a sword was a sensation he was unfamiliar with and would make sure not to experience again, although Aegon, he knew, would gloat about his own rare experience with winning for the foreseeable future. Jon was suddenly nostalgic for the days when Elia insisted on having them spar with wooden swords so as to ensure Aegon’s safety. A wolf on its own can be trusted. A wolf with the head of a dragon veered too close to manticore territory to put faith in.

Her wariness was understandable. Jon’s ability with a sword far surpassed Aegon’s, and his swordsmanship abilities were well known among the nobles of King’s Landing. The sensation of losing was also one he was unaccounted with, a perk of being his father’s sacrificial lamb in the case of battle.

Aegon retracted his sword, although the cocky grin on his lips remained as he held out a brown hand for Jon to grasp onto. Jon eyed his half-brother in petulant distaste and opted to push himself off of the ground. At that, the blasted grin only grew.

“If I didn’t know you any better, I would say you are beginning to slack in your abilities, dear brother.” Aegon observed lightly as he sheathed his weapon. He flexed his sword hand and biceps before reaching around to untie the ribbon which held that shock of silvery hair back. It looked almost ethereal with the way the sun glinted off of it, a sharp contrast to Jon’s own tangle of messy, black curls held back in a similar fashion. He could never quite pull it off as well as his half-brother did, however.

Jon rolled his eyes as he moved to do the same with his own sword, brushing off stray dirt from the pommel and hilt. “Do you profess to know me at all, then?” His lip curled wryly. “Perhaps I yearn for the simpler days of wooden swords.”

It was Aegon’s turn to roll his eyes. “Have we not spent our boyhoods together, and even before that?” The bite in his tone surprised Jon – had his previous words caught a nerve? He and Aegon had grown up together, even drank from the same wet nurse, and yet Jon did not feel any kindred relationship with his half-brother. Aegon would always remain a vision of what Jon never would have and never would be, despite any Targaryen names his father could bestow upon him.

Aegon never took anything too seriously –a fact that irritated Jon to no end – and soon turned those perpetually laughing violet eyes towards him, trademark smirk on his lips. He waved his hand flippantly. “Enough with the swords and the fighting. I have a bottle of Dornish red in my chambers. I do believe a celebration is in order, and not just because of the successes of this match.” He offered no explanation at Jon’s curious expression, and in turn only inclined his head towards the direction that would lead them out of the courtyard and into the royal apartments.

A walk that Jon begrudgingly joined him on, because although the Targaryen princeling and his ways irked him to no end, Aegon was nothing if not persistent. Jon also didn’t terribly mind his company, not that he would ever admit it.

He could admit to himself, in the deepest recesses of his mind, that Aegon wasn’t the problem. Even now, as he listened to Aegon recount tales of his recent travels to Sunspear and the immense gifts the Martells gave him, a part of his mind knew that the problem didn’t lie with Aegon completely. Aegon was merely a symptom, in some ways a pawn even, the same way Jon himself was.

And yet as counterproductive as it was, Jon couldn’t bring himself to understand or sympathize with him. He couldn’t bring himself to care about that, either.

“Penny for your thoughts, brother of mine?” Aegon’s posh drawl snapped Jon out of his reverie, and he blinked, recognizing the ornate door that lead to the princeling’s chambers. They arrived sooner than he expected. He shook his head at the question and Aegon smirked at a joke only he knew of and opened the door, ushering Jon inside.

Aegon’s chambers were almost twice as large as Jon’s and twice as extravagant. Shades of red and gold and orange decorated the room, reminding anyone who entered that he was as much of a Martell as he was a dragon. Aegon retrieved a bottle of Dornish red from the desk before making himself comfortable on one of the plush chairs, Jon following suit not long after and only feeling a slight twinge of guilt. Aegon’s servants likely hated him for dirtying his room so.

“What are we celebrating?” Jon hated to abide by small talk and wanted to cut straight to the point. Small talk reminded him of his father, of Rhaegar and his flowery words that held a thousand different meanings. Aegon was his father’s son in that regard.  In some others he clearly wasn’t, Jon thought with a concealed wince as he observed the silver-haired man take a hearty swig of wine straight from the bottle. At Jon’s disgust, Aegon gave an airy shrug.

“We drink like peasants tonight, Jaehaerys.” Jon stiffened at the use of _that_ name. He never took a liking to it the way his father desired and preferred to stick with Jon. Jaehaerys represented the Targaryens in all of their gilded glory, an attempt to get him to believe for a second that he belonged with them. Keeping the name his mother chose for him – even if it was chosen after Jon fucking Connington – was a way to preserve her memory in a world that greatly desired to get rid of it altogether.

Jon’s attempt to interrupt Aegon was futile, as he held up a hand to stop it. “Life is beautiful when you stop and look around rather than sulking. The King is ill, they say, and of course there’s the matter of your impending betrothal.” The cool shoulder of the bottle pressed against Jon’s hand and he accepted it from Aegon without sipping from it. His mouth suddenly felt rather dry, but he did not think ingesting alcohol would be wise.

Why hadn’t he heard about the King? “The King is—what’s happened to him?” It was gossip among the smallfolk that Aerys burnt bodies during the Rebellion as sacrifices to keep his own mortality, or lack thereof, strong. Jon knew not to put stock in folklore but there was little which he would put past his grandfather. He almost didn’t hear the last part of his half-brother’s sentence before it registered and his head snapped up, dark eyes blazing. “There is no impending betrothal, Aegon.”

“Sickness of the stomach according to Connington,” Aegon replied flippantly, greedy hands reaching over to take the bottle back. He regarded Jon with equal parts amusement and bemusement. “Well, Father tells a different story. Which Stark do you think you’ll get? I’ve heard the eldest one is quite beautiful but perhaps that’s because she’s more Tully in appearance.”

Jon didn’t rise to the bait as he knew Aegon so wanted. He was immune to most of the slights against the family that made up one half of him, except for when it came to Viserys. Viserys speaking ill of the Starks or his mother was a different matter completely, but few were burdened with madness such as his uncle was. “The eldest is my age, yes.” His reply was stiff, much to the ever-growing amusement of Aegon, who likely thought he was brooding again. “The younger is too young. Father wouldn’t marry me to a child.”

Amethyst eyes bored into his. “Who knows?” Aegon replied ominously. “That is putting a lot of faith in him. He would if he had his reasons.”

“Father does lots of things if he believes he has reason to, as I am all too aware.”

A scoff, and then Jon scoffed in return as Aegon punched him none too lightly on the shoulder. “It’s a betrothal, Jaehaerys, not a trial of the Faith. You act like a man being lead to the gallows. If you got out of your own head for even a minute you would see that this is all rather normal.”

Jon could feel the familiar wave of cold anger seeping through him, not for the first time since his father’s announcement. It was a helpless sort of anger, because he knew that in the grand scheme of things there was nothing to be done about it except let it fester. “Seven Hells, Aegon, I know that. I don’t expect you to comprehend how I’m feeling about this because you can’t. You don’t understand my desire to—to fade, quietly, and not subject anyone else to what I’ve experienced, let alone a child should that happen.”

The bottle, which was halfway to Aegon’s mouth, swayed dangerously as he regarded Jon incredulously, pale eyebrows raising into his hairline. “Father gave you everything.” He said slowly, squinting at Jon as though this was the first time seeing him.

“No,” Jon snarled, and then the next thing he knew he was on his feet, “Father gave you everything. You can’t even begin to understand what it is to be me, Aegon, and the very idea would be a joke to you.”

Aegon leaned back into the couch, raising an arrogant eyebrow in reply. “Would you have preferred to be raised as a common bastard, then? If this life was so terrible to you?”

A flash of white-hot anger surged through him and sent Jon striding towards the door, ignoring Aegon’s mumble of, “Perhaps I really _don’t_ know you.”

A bastard was an anomaly, a blight on a society that refused to understand them after all.  Jon never believed himself any different. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo!!! it was so hard to get into jons head and then i had the worst writers block. thank you for all the love on this and the support. i hope you like this and dont forget to comment if you did!!! <3


	5. v. dany

**“On earth we can truly love only with suffering and through suffering.” – Fyodor Dostoevsky**

**v. DANY**

Sunlight filtered through the thick, ornate blood-red velvet drapery, casting an ethereal glow about the otherwise ivory room. Frilly and white, it was a bedroom fit for a princess – and rightfully so, Dany thought as she cast her eyes about her chambers, unaffected by the glare of the sun. Her bedroom had remained largely unchanged since she was a girl, with the exception of her closet, which seemed to triple in size whenever Rhaenys and her goodsister returned from Dorne, or whenever Dany herself returned from one of her favorite shops. Years ago Viserys told her that their mother had this room set up for her unborn daughter when she was pregnant; Dany was unsure if that was another one of his lies or not, but she liked the sound of it all the same, and so she was reluctant to ever truly change anything about her chambers.

She drew the drapes back, ignoring her lady Celia’s call of protest as she did so, sending the other woman an impish grin as she took a seat in front of her. Celia tutted but was behind Dany immediately, brushing and plaiting the fine silver tresses into their usual arrangement. The gown she was to wear today was a casual one – an eggshell blue that brought out her lavender eyes – and Dany shook her head as Celia moved to brush her face with powder. She was never one for makeup, and the day ahead of her would be relaxed; needlework with Rhaenys was hardly a special occasion.

Sewing was not one of Dany’s favorite activities although she was quite skilled at it. It was simply a way to spend time with Rhaenys and Elia when her goodsister was free enough to indulge. What very few understood about her was that Dany was, at the heart of it, a very lonely person. Growing up in the Red Keep with one brother who was mad, a father who was absent, and an elder brother who seemed to care only for himself certainly didn’t help matters. Sometimes she felt as though if she didn’t reach out to Rhaenys the way she did, the other girl would forget about her completely, content with Dorne and her many other (Martell) cousins.

There was, of course, one person who understood Dany and who she understood completely in return.

“When shall the Princess Rhaenys be arriving?” Celia tucked back a loose strand of silver hair with a crystallized pin. Dany smiled sweetly at her, reflecting in the vanity mirror. Celia was an older woman, older than her mother would have been, but she had always liked her.

“Mayhaps in a summer from now, if her timing is to be trusted,” she quipped, getting a snort from the older woman. There was already a pitcher of cold, sweetened tea waiting for them. She hoped by the time Rhaenys arrived it wouldn’t be completely tepid.

A knock on the door startled them both. Dany nodded at the silent question Celia posed to her, smiling again as her lady went to open the chamber door to receive what could only be Rhaenys. Indeed, her cousin stepped in not a moment later, once again wearing Dornish clothes though they were much simpler this time: an embroidered black blouse which exposed her tanned midriff and a bejeweled, burnt orange skirt that seemed to be wrapped and pleated around her. A gauzy gold shawl was draped over her shoulder – Rhaenys rarely covered her hair with a shawl as most other Dornish women did.

“You may leave, Celia,” Dany instructed, nodding at the woman as she left before rising to kiss her cousin on the cheek in greeting. “Rhaenys!”

Rhaenys did the same in extending her greetings. “Needlework again, Dany?” She asked dryly as she wasted no time in getting comfortable on the settee, already beginning to sip on their beverages. Dany reached for her embroidering hoop and sighed as she joined her.

“It’s beyond me how you can play the harp but not sew, Rhae.” How Rhaenys had inherited her brother’s talent in the harp when Dany herself was pitiful at playing, she would never know.

At that, Rhaenys gave an unaffected shrug, brown fingers fiddling with the needle and fabric already. “It is the attempt that matters and not the result. At least I try.”

Dany could admit the wisdom in that even if it did leave a bitter taste in her mouth. Sometimes Rhaenys did that, as much as she hated it. It wasn’t that Dany was jealous of Rhaenys – she could never harbor true envy or dislike towards the woman she recognized as a sister – but there were certain… _things_. Dany knew that she was not ugly and many a man would kill to be betrothed to her, but she often felt that her beauty paled in comparison to Rhaenys; that _she_ paled in comparison to her cousin. She did, quite literally—Rhaenys was an exotic beauty, a dragon where it mattered but a Martell where it counted, while Dany was all Targaryen. The very image of her mother, Viserys said. Beyond that, everything seemed to come easy to her cousin and Dany sometimes found herself wishing that Viserys was more like Aegon, that her own childhood was as happy as Rhaenys’.

Quickly banishing such thoughts away, for they would do no good especially if left to fester, Dany reached for her cousins’ hand and held it as she leaned forward in excitement. “Tell me about Dorne! How was it?” She had always wanted to visit and technically she could – Elia would delight in taking her, and Rhaegar could possibly even convince her father, but it wouldn’t be worth the fallout from Viserys when she came back. Potentially her father, as well, if he was aware enough of her absence.

Rhaenys let out a wistful sigh. “Amazing,” she answered earnestly, eyes taking on a dreamy quality that was rarely seen on her. A soft smile etched on her lips. “I can’t wait to go back.”

Dany didn’t quite enjoy when the other girl was gone – it made her even lonelier than usual. Rhaenys was not someone who understood Dany completely, as only one could say they did and the privilege did not belong to Rhaenys, but she still found herself missing female companionship in her cousins’ absence. Still, she forced a smile as she definitely understood the desire. The desire to be away from home wasn’t foreign to her. “Oh, is that so? Have you taken a lover?” She giggled girlishly, the glower from Rhaenys only intensifying her laughter.

“So what if I did,” the other girl muttered, a dark flush creeping up her neck. Dany’s eyes widened a fraction. _Oh, so it is like that._ This would be as much of an admittance as Rhaenys would give and it was hardly surprising – Dany had always assumed her cousin would marry Dornish in the end, as Elia so often got her way in their marriage. Though that was not without its reasons or consequence…

Rhaenys hissed sharply as she stabbed her own fingertip with the needle, much to Dany’s dark amusement, as she was used to this by now. She was surprised Rhaenys even still felt the pain of it after such accidents almost every week. A laugh bubbled out of her, much to Rhaenys’ chagrin, and Dany’s laughter subsided at her glare. She brought her focus back to her own needlework, eyebrow raised in interest as Rhaenys cleared her throat.

“So,” Rhaenys began casually, setting her needlework down and leaning back in the settee. “I believe the Starks should be arriving in a fortnite. Less, even, if weather permits it.”

Dany’s heart sank. The stupid betrothal, how could she forget? She’d cried about it when it was announced, of course, into the privacy of her pillow and far too quiet for anyone’s prying ears to hear. She had tried her best to forget about it and hadn’t even discussed the subject with Jon, who seemed just as upset as she was about it. The thought almost lifted her spirits. “Oh?” Feigning a casual, unaffected voice, Dany kept her eyes on her hoop, not trusting herself to look up.

“Dany.”

“What? I…” her breath caught, and Dany willed her voice not to break. _You are the dragon._ “I am happy for him. Truly.” Once she was confident that her composure was solid, Dany did glance up to meet Rhaenys’ eyes.

Eyes that were almost as dark as his. Dany swallowed.

Rhaenys sighed. “You can’t have expected…the King, let alone the Prince, would have never allowed you to, you know. They would see it as marrying below your station.” Dany hated the foreign gentleness of her cousin’s voice, the sympathy she was exerting towards her.

“Yes,” she snapped, “I know.”

“Was he even yours to lose?” Rhaenys’ tone was soft, but her dark eyebrows were arched in curiosity and Dany knew what she was truly asking. The answer, of course, was no. Jon had never had her – he was far too honorable for that – nor had she ever attempted any such an act. It was too bold and Dany had wanted something sweet, innocent, between them. That was part of it; her father and brother would not hesitate to kill him if they did engage in such an act and were caught.

The loss of her mother was a subject that Dany had grown used to, though not less sensitive about. Never did a day go by where she didn’t miss her mother. At first she felt guilty – how could she miss someone she had never met – but when faced with the reality of many situations, she strongly believed that if her mother was alive it would all be better. It was a terrible thing, to grow up in this world as a girl without a mother. Elia had tried, and Viserys grudged for it, but Dany was grateful for even the small acts her goodsister did. Elia wasn’t required to take care of them, and still she tried her best, despite dealing with two children of her own.

But she wasn’t her mother. Rhaenys was like a sister to her, but even Rhaenys lacked the patience to give advice on certain subjects; she was not an idealistic girl like Dany, and was rather realistic and cynical. She missed her mother something fierce, and today was no different. She wondered what the late Queen would say about Jon – would she encourage Dany to not give up hope, or would she simply tell her that it was unwise and to protect her heart by moving on?

No one could ever hope to fill the role Rhaella Targaryen could, but Jon came close to being the only person to understand Dany, and she him. He was a kindred spirit, the two of them sharing a loneliness and a bond that no one else could hope to compare to, not even whatever Stark was to be married to him.

What did it matter if they had never made that bond a physical one?

“No,” Dany replied tonelessly, “he wasn’t.”

Seemingly placated by that answer, Rhaenys nodded and said nothing more, once again focusing on her mess of needlepoint. Dany was grateful for the silence and worked alongside her, not wanting to discuss the impending betrothal or anything else. This day was almost soured for her, which was a shame, as it had been off to a great start.

She bit her lip as Rhaenys’ earlier words came back to her: _It is the attempt that matters._

No, her and Jon had never discussed feelings of any type, regarding the both of them. That would not stop her from trying, however. It would be a start.

 _And that can be enough,_ Dany told herself as a small smile graced her features once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't ship jonerys, so this is def onesided. i do like dany too so no dany bashing! i just think she is a very lonely person and write her that way. but girls got a plan, hehe :p


	6. vi. viserys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence and noncon touching.

**“I am greedy & beyond control; a heavy lantern spilling shadows, darkening a bright room. Watch me race myself to the end of my own light.” – Jeremy Radin**

**vi. VISERYS**

Ever since that disastrous dinner, thoughts of his impending betrothal flitted in his mind, unruly and wasp-like in their anger. It had been days since and yet he still felt the dregs of anger bubbling through his system, the slow wake of the dragon threatening to arise fully to the surface. Viserys knew that neither Rhaegar nor his father would ever deem such a marriage appropriate without any outside influence; they had no reason to, not when it was tradition for the Targaryen princes to marry their sisters.

There was another culprit involved, he was quite certain of it.

That was what led him to thrust the door open to Daenerys’ chambers in the Maidenvault, a scowl twisting his lips as his sister and her insipid maid jumped at the intrusion. He had interrupted the women in the act of dressing his sister, it seemed, and her silver hair blended in almost wholly with her white chemise. She made no move to cover herself and Viserys resisted the urge to curl his lips in a leer towards her.

She gazed up at him with wariness in those purple eyes. “Viserys, what are you doing here?” As if realizing the state she was in, pale arms moved to preserve modesty before lamely dropping back at her sides. There was nothing Viserys hated more than his sisters’ continued use of feigning innocence.

“Am I not allowed to visit my sweet sister on a whim?” He asked, edging out of the doorway and stepping closer into the room. He cast his eyes around the space, taking in the ivory color scheme, his lips pursing in thought as he contemplated it. Daenerys would remain in these chambers even after their marriage and bedding, alone, much like her ancestors had. Except Viserys was not Baelor and was not frightened by temptation or carnal thoughts; no, he simply wanted to ensure that his sister would always want him and him only. His eyes landed on his sister’s maid – a woman who, in all of her peasant dullness, he had almost forgotten – and he bared his teeth at her. “Get out.” He snapped, watching in satisfaction as the old woman wasted no time in fleeing the bedroom.

Daenerys watched her maidservant flee with barely concealed agitation in her eyes. Eyes that mirrored his, which was why Viserys was adept at noticing the emotions that his sister so often failed to conceal in front of him. She sighed and her chest rose and fell with the motion. “Was that necessary, Viserys?”

Viserys ignored her irrelevant question and stalked closer to her, twirling a lock of moonlit hair around his bony finger and pretending that the way she stiffened at his touch didn’t make rage boil inside him. “Yes,” he answered at last, twin eyes boring into one another, “it was. There are some conversations that are inappropriate for other ears to hear.”

“Such as?”

Gods, how he hated this display of ignorance.

He tightened his hold on the hair wrapped around his digits and yanked, taking pleasure in the way that Daenerys cried out as the force of it brought her closer to him. “You know exactly what, sister, do not play coy. Being foolish does not suit you.” His breath puffed warm air against her ear for several moments before he lifted her chin with his finger, ensuring he could stare into her eyes. He could always tell when his sister was lying. “I know it was you who whispered the suggestion to Father and Rhaegar, there is no way they would otherwise conspire for me to marry that Martell whore on their own.”

Daenerys looked up at him with wide eyes and swallowed before raising her chin. These acts of defiance – however small – were unlike his sister and Viserys knew that the influence of Rhaenys was to blame. It was no matter. He would be sure to rid her of that defiance after their marriage. “It wasn’t me Viserys. I did no such thing.”

Oh, how his fingers itched to do nothing more than slap her in that moment. How he hated his sister sometimes. Viserys knew that if he were to give into such desires, Daenerys would cry to Rhaegar, and this time his brother might bar him from seeing her at all. Instead he settled for gripping her hip with his free hand, hard enough that he knew tomorrow the curve would be marked with the bruises of his fingertips. “Is that so,” he murmured almost in the gentle tones of a lover. “And you expect me to believe that, sweet Daenerys?”

His hand snaked along her chemise, a smirk playing on his lips as his sister visibly stiffened.

She swallowed once more and gazed up at him, that tempting mouth marred by a frown. “Yes,” she said simply, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. She was pretty when she smiled, but Viserys almost enjoyed the way his sister pouted when she cried over her happy grins; pity she wasn’t doing so now. “How am I to know how Father makes decisions? No one, not even Rhaegar, is aware of that these days. Perhaps they both believe it is a necessary action to take.”

He did not believe his sister one whit but couldn’t deny that her words carried sense. His hand finally found its destination and it squeezed at her breast through the silken fabric, fingers rubbing against the hardened nipple that was visible through the silk. Gooseflesh erupted on Daenerys’ arms and Viserys widened his lips into a predatory smile. “Say and believe what you will, sister,” he murmured, his fingers pinching tighter around the bud with each word, “but admit to yourself that this is natural. It is the Targaryen way. If you so desire, I can introduce a second wife for the both of us, but you need not sacrifice dear Arianne for it. I suggest you stop fighting it, my sweet Dany.” His hand released her and he left his sister staring after him, face flat save for the roundness of her eyes. Viserys knew she wanted him and in time, he would have her. After their marriage, he would leave her in this very room, dresses torn and her crying for him not to leave. Right now, though, he had other plans – actions to ensure that future could become a reality.

Crimson robes billowed behind him as he strode purposefully towards the True Dragon’s chambers, the serving folk largely staying out of his way as they always did. The smell of sickness hung in the air even on the outside of the door, and Viserys’ patrician nose wrinkled in distaste.

Was this the smell of death?

Viserys pushed the door open anyway, startling the bumbling Pycelle, and having no impact on his father. The True Dragon merely writhed on the bed, groaning and clutching his stomach in frail hands, thin lips whispering incomprehensible words under his breath. It was a pitiful sight, Viserys had to admit, to see a dragon reduced to such a helpless thing.

“How is he?”

Pycelle glanced up, shaking fingers clutching around a vial of some sort of medicine in an attempt to fool Viserys into believing he was not asleep seconds before. “The King fairs well today, my prince. He is…rather lucid, gods be good.”

“As he should be if you are healing him to the best of your ability, Grandmaester.” Viserys all but spat at the Maester, his eyes narrowing as he considered the other man.

Pycelle looked as though he was about to say something, or perhaps argue, before he closed his mouth and offered a bland “of course, Prince Viserys.”

The smell of bile filled the room as the King heaved violently into his chamber pot. Viserys blanched in disgust, his nose wrinkling once more as Pycelle moved to clean it. “Afford me a moment of privacy with my Kingly father, Pycelle.” Pycelle bobbed his head in a shaky nod and shuffled out of the room, holding the pot at arms-length as he moved in that insufferably slow pace. Viserys was half tempted to shove him out himself.

He approached the side of the bed, stroking white hair back from his fathers aged face. It was tragic how far a dragon could fall. “Father,” he murmured softly as he pressed his lips to the cold, sweaty brow of the King.

The True Dragon jerked, wide eyes seeing through Viserys and into times long past. Dirty fingernails clutched at the bed sheets. “Burn them…insipid, foolish wastes…ashes, the lot of them, burn them all!” What had started as an incomprehensible mumble soon rose into a snarling roar and Viserys hurried to placate his father.

“Father, it’s me, Viserys.”

Glazed amethyst eyes squinted at him for several seconds before a flash of recognition crossed the King’s face. His lips twitched into a sneer concealed by his beard, the untrimmed hair splaying past his chest. “Ah, Viserys. Foolish boy. What do you want?”

Viserys steeled himself, standing up straight as he did so. He was the dragon and had nothing to fear. “I need you to arrange my marriage to Daenerys, Father. Rhaegar, halfwit as he is, believes the Martell whore to be a better match. Please, Father, I must not obey Rhaegar. He is hardly a true dragon—“

Vicious laughter cut off the rest of Viserys’ words as it bellowed from the King’s chest, the frail body trembling and hunching in on itself as he did so. There was no mirth there, Viserys knew.

“And you fancy yourself the true dragon, do you, boy?” A bony hand shot out to grab his wrist and Viserys withheld a flinch as the talon-like nails dug into his porcelain skin. There was a sudden hardness in those eyes, though the feverish madness still danced in them. Viserys knew that this look was likely the last thing that all of the men his father had killed saw before the execution. “I will tell you something and I will tell it true. Your brother has posed his disappointments to me. I do not approve of the Stark bitch nor the bastard pup she gave him, but even he is half dragon too. The dragon doesn’t have to ask, we _take,_ and you will do well to remember that before you come to my chambers crying like a lowly maiden over a marriage proposal.” The vice-like grip released him and the King took his hand back as though scalded, nails raking over the bedding. “Until you see fit to remember that you are no true dragon, Viserys.”

That rage that simmered beneath the surface almost reached a boiling point and Viserys pressed his lips together to hold it back. He managed a shaky nod and a “yes, Father” before departing woodenly. How he wished he could unleash the dragon and show his father, once and for all, how wrong he and Rhaegar were.

His father’s words cut him more than he would have liked to admit and he would spend that night, and many others, repeating them in his head. A mad dragon was still a dragon, and the flames they breathed were still true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last targ chapter for awhile! next, we finally see sansa!


	7. vii. sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chapter we've been waiting for!! they finally meet!! let me know what you think <3

**"What my heart will be is a tower, and I will be right out on its rim: nothing else will be there, only pain and what can’t be said, only the world." – Rainer Maria Rilke**

**vii. SANSA**

King’s Landing smelled strongly of waste. It was the first thing Sansa noticed as she stepped woodenly out of the carriage, attempting with all her might not to sway on her feet at the nausea that overtook her due to the smell. It was a sentiment Arya shared as well and expressed in a more vulgar way, leading their lady mother to scold her. Once upon a time Sansa might have laughed at the common occurrence of her younger sister being reprimanded, but now she couldn’t find it in herself to feel much of anything.

The capital was lively, bustling, and _loud._ The sounds and smells were overwhelming and Sansa found that she kept wrinkling her nose unconsciously, yet even that barely brought any relief. She had pushed the feeling away during their travels but the persistent, roaring longing for her home shot through her anyway as she took in her surroundings, suddenly missing Winterfell and the familiar smell of frost and pine. King's Landing was busier than Winterfell and home to an array of markets and shops, but it for all of its liveliness remained strangely isolated. There was a class divide that wasn’t present in her hometown; here nobles so clearly thumbed their nose at those who were less fortunate, and the smallfolk seemed eager to stay out of the nobles’ way. Sansa thought back to her father and how he would allow everyone to eat with them, stewards and cooks and stable boys alike, just so he could hear the stories they had to offer him and get to know them as people in return. She could not feel pride at her father’s actions, now, but some sort of lightness broke through her spirits nonetheless.

A gentle hand on the small of her back guided her forward and Sansa began to comply before thinking better of that and glancing back to see who had touched her. Arya blinked back at her, grey eyes darting ahead of them before her younger sister offered Sansa a wry smile that remained unreturned. At the start of this Sansa had thought she would rely on her family and consider them as an armed force of sorts, with the intention of defending her. As the journey wore on she began to distance herself from them, slowly, but she knew her parents and Arya felt the distance even if they didn’t acknowledge it. She barely spoke to her mother and had only exchanged pleasantries this morning as she styled Sansa’s hair into a near-immaculate attempt at a Southron hairstyle. Talking to her father was out of the question; Sansa couldn’t handle the looks he gave her, guilt-ridden and grim as though she was walking to the gallows instead of a betrothal. Maybe she was. The pain of her father failed to give her any satisfaction and succeeded in making her feel worse about the whole ordeal and so Sansa avoided him as much as possible. Arya was another beast altogether – many times during the middle of the night Arya would assure her that she didn’t have to do this, or give Sansa foolish alternate ideas which became very irritating very quickly. Of course her younger sister didn’t understand, having never conformed to the idea of being a proper lady. Decorum was Sansa’s forte and her mother’s house words repeated in her mind in a near-constant mantra. Family, Duty, Honor – all of which Sansa had, even if her family was asking her to complete the duty that might besmirch her honor. ‘Might’ was putting it nicely; marrying a bastard, however danced around it was, definitely would shame her.

They arrived at the throne room all too quickly, Sansa straying a few steps from the rest of her family, something which she doubted would go unnoticed but hoped the Targaryens would be tactful enough to not bring up. Her hands smoothed over her emerald green gown, one of her best, for what felt like the thousandth time. This wasn’t even the wedding, yet, and she felt incredibly distanced from everything despite the abundance of nerves in her system. Perhaps she was going into shock. The gods would be cruel enough to find _that_ a joke with the way her life was going.

Sunlight poured in through the high ceilings and windows of the room, which was way more lavish than any area of Winterfell was. Sansa couldn’t focus on the ornate décor and instead her eyes were trained solely on the throne in front of her.  The first thing she noticed was that the King was noticeably absent, Prince Rhaegar seated on the bladed throne in his place. The Prince lounged atop the chair as though he himself ruled from it, a king in his own right; and indeed he looked every inch of the royalty he was, clad in a velvet crimson cloak with embellished dragons on it that accentuated the silver of his hair. The Princess Elia sat beside him, wrapped in a revealing gown that showed off far more than it concealed, crimson and gold for both of her respective houses.  Her tumbling curls almost reached to her waist and the Dornish princess provided a stark contrast to her husband in nearly every way.

Sansa could only stare. The Targaryens were all just so _beautiful._

She dropped to an immediate, flawless curtsy in front of the Prince and his Princess, Arya following suit though doing so less perfectly. Rhaegar regarded them with an indecipherable look. Elia’s lips lilted into a smile.

“I apologize for the Kings absence during this time, as he is indisposed. Regardless, it is our greatest pleasure to host House Stark during the tourney held in honor of the upcoming nameday of my son, the Prince Jaehaerys.” Rhaegar spoke at once, and Sansa found even his voice to be compelling, though she did not need to look back at her parents to know the wariness and dubiousness etched onto their faces. The Prince evidently noticed as well, for he offered a reassuring smile. “We make a strange menagerie here, I have noticed. Dragons, vipers, and now, a wolf. You need not fear for the Lady Sansa’s wellbeing, Lord Stark. In time your lady daughter will discover the protective nature of the dragon, and how we look out for our own.” Those brilliant purple eyes swept over all of them, warmth and compassion reflected in them. His gaze flickered on Arya for a second and something flashed in his eyes. Sansa wondered if he saw a dead woman reflected in them.

The Prince’s children and siblings nodded in agreement, save for the skinny, sharp featured man Sansa knew to be Prince Viserys. He eyed her family as though his brother had brought in wildlings before them, his mouth twisted into a petulant sneer. Beside him, Princess Daenerys sat gazing at nothing and no one in particular, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Princess Rhaenys observed the Starks with a sharp-eyed interest. Prince Aegon had an easy, charming smile on his face and Sansa swore he winked at her when she caught his eye. The Bastard Prince Jaehaerys sat stiffly straight next to him, dressed in the same royal attire though with less finery than the rest of them. His lips were pressed together firmly and his dark, almost-amber eyes were trained almost solely on her father.

“How lovely it is, to be a girl and visit King’s Landing for the first time,” Princess Elia exclaimed fondly, small hands clapping together as her dark eyes glazed in reminiscence of favored memories. And then she was practically floating towards Sansa, throwing her slender arms around her in a hug before Sansa could even react. “I can only hope we make this a home to you as Winterfell has been, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa nodded against the other woman’s hair, glad Princess Elia could not see the dumbstruck expression on her face. “Indeed I will, Princess. I will cherish these memories for the rest of my life, I am sure.” Elia only laughed as she released her and patted Sansa on the cheek; Sansa was sure she would become even fonder of the Princess in time.

The room remained silent for a beat. Rhaegar exchanged a glance with Viserys and the two looked to be in a silent battle of wills. Viserys sighed audibly before flicking hard eyes toward Sansa, not bothering to hide the contempt; whatever battle it had been Rhaegar clearly won. “Lady Sansa. In spite of this surprising betrothal, I hope you enjoy your time here all the same.” The words left his mouth as though he forced them out. It hardly surprised Sansa; the whispers in Winterfell proclaimed the Prince Viserys was half-mad even on days the gods smiled upon him.

She dipped her head in thanks as she curtsied once again. “Many thanks, my Prince.”

Princess Rhaenys and Princess Daenerys rushed to hug her next and Sansa, having never had much physical affection with Arya, was a bit overwhelmed at not one but two embraces. She managed weak laughter, which only spurred the other two women on. “We hope to become your sisters in time, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys’ pale, snow-white hands and surprisingly warm hands clutched at hers. She offered Sansa a warm smile which was returned twofold. “A beautiful castle can become quite lonely if one isn’t careful. Remember on those nights that we will always be here. You need only to ask.”

Princess Rhaenys laughed against the flame of Sansa’s hair, a breathless, rasping sound. “Excuse my cousin. I’m afraid Daenerys excites herself. There are many of us here, and it is quite difficult to ever feel truly alone, but it does happen. I’ve no doubts we will become like sisters in time, the three of us, much like Dany and myself have.”

Sansa shot grateful smiles at the both of them. She had stories about both Princesses being beautiful, charming women, and she was happy to see that it was true; happier still to be included. “I don’t doubt it either, my Princess.”

“Call us by our names, Lady Sansa. We are all friends here.”

“You may call me Sansa, then, if it pleases you.”

“Are you going to keep our guest and make me look ruder than I already have, Rhaenys?” The lilting drawl was accompanied by Prince Aegon, who stepped in front of his sister and ignored her huff. Sansa barely withheld a smile; the scene was all too familiar. The smile quickly turned into a painfully obvious blush as Aegon took her hand in his and kissed it, his lips warm against her skin. He was dressed in almost identical clothing to his father, his silver curls secured by a ribbon, and looked every inch the Prince he was. He looked the way a prince should, the way Sansa had always imagined them looking in stories. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled, a smile which grew as he noticed her blush. “Pleasure it is, Lady Sansa. I must confess I do not often see beautiful women I’m not related to around here often, so seeing you is indeed a pleasure.” Sansa colored again, deeper this time she was sure, much to the amusement of Aegon.

A shock of dark hair alerted her to the presence of Jaehaerys. His amber eyes bore holes into her and Sansa resisted the urge to shift under the scrutiny of his unreadable gaze. She dropped to another low curtsy, ignoring the now-present ache in her knees. “Prince Jaehaerys.”

She was unsure how else she should refer to him; this was obviously the wrong title for Jaehaerys stiffened and Aegon chuckled at his reaction. Her betrothed marched forward anyway, muttering a ‘Lady Sansa’ and taking her hand in his large one, raising it to meet his lips. To say he kissed it would be inaccurate—his lips merely slid against the skin of her hand and Sansa felt her heart sink at the already cold demeanor of her soon to be husband.

Elia gazed at her, the sympathy evident. “Perhaps you should see the gardens, Lady Sansa. They truly are spectacular this time of year. Jaehaerys,  why don’t you accompany her?”

Jaehaerys nodded wordlessly, stray raven curls falling into his face as he did so. He was not ugly even if he was brooding, with his mouth set in a perpetual sullen pout. He was not ugly but he lacked the delicate beauty of the Targaryens and instead had a much more Northern appearance. It was not unexpected or even unwelcome, but Sansa had grown up surrounded by the dour appearances of Northerners. She herself was more Tully than Stark and while she was not opposed to the Northern ‘look’ per se, it was not what she expected herself to marry. He lacked the open, easygoing air that others – such as Aegon and in the past, Dickon Tarly – had come into so well.

The walk to the gardens was quiet with neither Jaehaerys nor Sansa willing to break the silence. She was not sure what to say as even referring to him by his correct title seemed to throw him off into a dour mood, and she would not chat idly if he was uninterested. They stood an arms-length apart which further disappointed her; she had always envisioned strolling arm-in-arm with her betrothed, laughing breathlessly at inane jokes and gazing deeply into one another’s eyes. Something told her that Jaehaerys was not the type to engage in either activity. He looked as though even being around her was an act which caused him pain.

“Oh, how lovely!” The gardens were beautiful and _fragrant_. Gone was the smell of dung that greeted her when she stepped foot into King’s Landing; here the light smell of roses wafted over her as she bent to sniff one, closing her eyes as she did so. Winterfell had never been home to such an exquisite garden due to the temperatures, but the flowers thrived in the South. She could imagine herself, Rhaenys, and Daenerys having tea among the flowers, giggling over the latest court gossip. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Jaehaerys gave a noncommittal grunt. He shifted on his feet, avoiding her gaze. Sansa sighed and tried to mask it as a sigh of pleasure from the flowers, though she doubted he cared enough to call her out on it.

The sound of him clearing his throat caused her to glance up at him as her fingers trailed along the slender stem of a particularly beautiful rose. “Lady Sansa,” he began, finally forcing his amber eyes to meet hers. “I must admit, I am unwilling to enter this union with any illusions on either side. I’m aware that this is very much an arranged marriage. Therefore I find that I will be comforted if you’re prepared fully before this begins, and that you enter our betrothal fully aware of the fact that there will be no love on either side.” It was like the air left Sansa’s lungs. She was aware of that, of course – her own parents did not fall in love immediately, and yet they had learned to love one another. Sansa knew she would not have a love match as it wouldn’t be proper. She had only hoped that she would fall in love, mutual love, with whoever she married. Now it was just another part of life she was deprived of.

Jaehaerys glanced away again and he looked to weigh the words in his mind before he continued. “I will understand if you wish to seek pleasure elsewhere. In fact I encourage you to. I will do my best to ensure that no heirs will be had, though my father will likely care more about Rhaenys and Aegon than I in that regard.”

Lady Catelyn, on the rare occasions she was angry or upset, had always embodied a cold emotion. She hid behind her decorum and used her etiquette as a weapon rather than reacting with hot emotions. It was something Sansa learned to mimic and so she did, meeting Jaehaerys’ gaze with her chin held high. “Of course, my lord, it is understood. Do not presume to inquire about my dalliances, and I will do the same with yours.”

The thorn of the rose pricked against her finger, drawing beads of blood, crimson like the colors of the dragon pit she was ensnared in. Sansa found that she didn’t care. The gardens had dulled and lost their beauty, suddenly.


	8. viii. sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note on the dynamic between jon/sansa, and jon as a whole after some of the responses last chapter: jon grew up in the south in this fic, and i don't think that a jon in those circumstances will be the same as the one we know from the books. jon's life at court has been rather dysfunctional, and there's an undercurrent of resentment he holds towards rhaegar despite the numerous privileges he's enjoyed as a result of living a princely life, even as a bastard. we'll see in his pov that he does feel badly for sansa and he doesn't hate her, but his own brooding gets in the way of his sympathy for her, even though she's forced into this just as he is. i hope you all enjoy this chapter :)

**"Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts." – Lord Alfred Tennyson**

**viii. SANSA**

The Princess Daenerys had sent her an invitation for tea and sewing.

Tracing a finger over the flowery, elegant looping script, Sansa could not help the thrill that rose in her at the invitation. She had left Winterfell with the knowledge that she would not be back soon, perhaps not for another summer, leaving companions such as Jeyne and Beth behind in doing so. She could not find it in her to shed tears as the carriage rode off but now a dull ache accompanied the thought of the two girls whose bonds were threaded with hers in near-sisterhood.

It was time for new friendships to forge, and now were a good time as any.

Arya peered over her shoulder at the missive and Sansa held it flat against her chest instinctively, reminiscent of the way she used to hide correspondences, or journal entries, from her sister back home. “Are you going to go?”

“Don’t be daft Arya, I hardly have a choice. She is the aunt of my betrothed and beyond that, a Princess. It will do no harm to build a relationship between us.”

Her younger sister pursed her lips. “Father says that they do things differently here in the South. The people here, especially at court, are not always trustworthy.”

A noncommittal noise left Sansa’s mouth as she made herself comfortable in front of her vanity mirror, trying to style her hair in the Southron fashions. Without her mother’s help it was a clumsy attempt and so she shook out the auburn tresses, opting to leave them loose instead. The Targaryens gave her chambers far beyond what she was expecting; the size rivaling that of her parent’s bedroom back home. The bed was big enough that Sansa did not even feel the thin, fit body of her sister when Arya joined her come nightfall.

Arya was worried for her, she knew, though the younger Stark would never express it verbally.

“I’ll accompany you there.” It wasn’t a question. Sansa shot her sister an exasperated look but acquiesced nonetheless, knowing that Arya would remain a shadow to her despite any objections.

The walk to Daenerys’ chambers in the Maidenvault was short and spent in comfortable silence. Arya hovered outside of the door, much to Sansa’s annoyance, leaving her to frown at her sister. “Go,” she hissed, taking in the usual unladylike appearance her sister favored; her hair was disheveled and she wore a simple, black gown fitting for Winterfell but not up to the standards of the court. Embarrassment and annoyance welled inside her – leave it to Arya to potentially ruin something good between her and Daenerys by walking the Keep as though she was a lowborn stable girl. Used to such looks from Sansa, Arya rolled her eyes and retreated, leaving the guard keeping watch outside of Daenerys’ chambers to glance at them with a trace of amusement before opening the door.

“Sansa!” Daenerys stood in greeting before promptly sweeping her into a light embrace which Sansa returned.

“Princess Daenerys. I hope you have been well.”

“Sansa,” Daenerys chided gently as she led her into her chambers, her hand encircled around Sansa’s wrist. It was warm to the touch. “I must remind you that no such titles are needed between us. Please, call me Dany. Everyone does and we are all family here.” A pink flush made its way to the high points of Sansa’s cheeks and she managed a nod to which Dany gave a sweet smile. To describe the Targaryen girl as gorgeous would be not only an understatement but a disservice; _ethereal_ was much more fitting, and staring at her Sansa could not believe that someone this beautiful existed.

It was easy to forget that Daenerys was a dragon when she looked as though she was made from moonlight.

As she glanced around Dany’s chambers, taking in their ornate, pristine appearance, Sansa believed they were fitting for a Targaryen princess. Blood-red drapery provided a nice contrast to the otherwise ivory color scheme present throughout the bedroom, and taking in the frilly aspect of everything, Sansa could not help but feel that while it was fit for a princess, the rooms were slightly dated; befitting more for a girl of Rickon’s age as opposed to the young woman that Dany was.

The hand around her wrist dropped as the girls sought to get comfortable on the ivory chaise, the hearth providing more than enough warmth. The flames of candle and firelight provided the only sources of light, and as Dany handed Sansa an embroidery hoop, she wondered how she would go about sewing something half presentable. She thought about asking Dany what she was going to sew tonight, but the other girl was intent on digging through her wardrobe in search of something.

“Our beverage of choice tonight, Sansa.” White, even teeth flashed in a triumphant grin as Dany procured a bottle of Dornish red in one hand, the other holding two small goblets. Sansa gaped in response; she had drank—sipped—wine with her father at dinners occasionally, but never so brazenly with friends. Dany laughed at her incredulous expression. “We ladies must find pleasure somewhere, you know.”

“I…I suppose.” Dany laughed again and handed Sansa her goblet, filled with more wine than what Sansa would have preferred. She sniffed it, the rich, heavy scent filling her nostrils. It was not entirely unpleasant. “Prin— _Rhaenys_ will not be joining us tonight?”

“No,” that head of beaming, silver hair shook, sending a loose curl tumbling from one of its pins. “Rhaenys is dreadful at sewing, and while she does hope to get to know you, she admits that she holds no love for these sorts of activities. Drinking, yes, as well as the harp, but not sewing.” Pink lips closed around the rim of the jeweled goblet as Dany drank from it, before setting it down and making a noise of approval. Sansa mimicked her actions and tried not to wince as she swallowed perhaps more than she should have drank, the crimson liquid sending an unpleasant burn through her throat.

“I’ve always been particularly gifted at sewing,” Sansa admitted, smiling in return as Dany sent another sweet, encouraging smile her way. “Though I’m afraid I’ve never played the harp, but I would probably be awful at it as well.”

“Nonsense! We will have to teach you, is all.”

Sansa made a hum of approval before bending her head to focus on her sewing. Threading the needle always came easy for her, and while she was hardly in her cups, she was not a seasoned drinker and so found the task more difficult than usual. After some awkward fumbling she finally managed to do so. Her hands were slightly sweaty from it, and so Sansa took another few sips to calm her nerves. Warmth radiated through her chest after she swallowed and she felt almost lighter after.

“What will you sew tonight?” 

“Hm, I’m not sure.” Dany admitted, a frown tugging at her lips as she considered the question. She grinned at Sansa impishly before taking another drink from her goblet, this one rather heavy. “Perhaps a dragon and wolf entwined together?” It was said in jest, but there was something that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Sansa blushed, ducking her head. “I’m not sure my lord would appreciate the gesture.” She did not mean for bitterness to lace through her words, but they did so anyway, the memory of her time with Jaehaerys in the garden forcing its way back to rear its head. 

“Oh?” The flames flicker in Dany’s eyes, tricks of the light making them more amber than violet. A spark of interest, perhaps, as her hands set down her embroidery. The princess leaned forward, regarding Sansa with curiosity. “Whatever makes you think that?”

How much should she divulge to Dany? With Arya’s words from earlier echoing in her head through the haze of wine, Sansa gave a jerky shrug. Her father had stated before, in passing, that the Princess was Jaehaerys’ aunt; knowing this, Sansa wondered if there was a chance Dany could give her advice for her unfortunate situation. Torn between the shame of not being wanted by her betrothed and hope at fixing it, that tentative hope wins. “Jaehaerys, he…has admitted that ours will be a loveless union.”

Dany remained silent, leaving Sansa to worry that her whisper was too quiet and left unheard. After a moment, the girl sagged into her cushions, something Sansa couldn’t identify flashing through her face before smoothing back into an expression of sympathy. “Jon is rather stubborn, I’m afraid. He has not taken kindly to his father’s desire for him to marry.”

“Jon?”

“Jaehaerys,” Dany clarified, biting her lip sheepishly at Sansa’s confusion. “I should have explained. Jaehaerys is the name Rhaegar chose, and Jon is the name he desires for true. Only select few may call him Jon, though.” Pale fingers closed around the goblet as Dany took another sip from it, violet eyes peering at Sansa over the rim. There was something unreadable reflecting back at her in those eyes, and Sansa swallowed a sip from her own cup.

“Are you close, then?” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

A slow smile curved Dany’s lips, bordering on a smirk. “Yes,” she answered and the pride was evident in her voice, however controlled and minute it was. “Quite.”

“I must confess, I never wanted for a loveless marriage,” Sansa admitted, keeping her eyes trained on her hands. “I am aware that love is something which grows between two people, but I’ve always yearned for a marriage like my parents have, and I thought the gods would be kind enough to bless me with one.”

The princess made a noise of sympathy and soon Sansa felt the warmth of Dany’s hand upon her own, forcing her to glance up at her. Flames danced across her pale face, twisted in sympathy, and maybe pity too. “Men are fickle. I know what it’s like to face situations where we have little choice, my dear Sansa,” the finely-boned hand squeezed Sansa’s in kind. “I hate to be so blunt, but you cannot force someone to love you. If Jon says he won’t, then the gods haven’t willed it to happen, have they?” Another smile graced Dany’s lips, the edges of something hard and cold lurking beneath it but flickering through the façade.

The words and intentions might not have been cruel but Sansa felt them crack at her, all the same.


	9. ix. jon

**“The absurd does not liberate; it binds.” -Albert Camus**

**IX.**   **JON**

Sleep, Jon found as of late, was becoming an increasingly rare luxury that eluded him most nights. Tonight was no exception. While the heat was not comparable to that of a full-blown summer, the thick, velvet duvet covers were doing him no favors; and the night air drifting in through the high, arched windows remained oppressive still. He drifted in and out of fitful slumber, his bleary mind thinking the torchlight and silhouette that remained at the crack of his door was nothing but the figment of a dream.

“Jon,” light bloomed behind his eyelids as the source, dream or reality, edged closer to him. Jon offered no response, opting to roll over instead; if this was indeed an omen of some type, it would be best not to interact at all. A heavy sigh sounded from the intruder, familiar yet not, and Jon was suddenly aware of the sensation of being shaken. “Jon, it’s me, Aegon. Wake up.”

Hearing the urgency in his half-brother’s so often jesting tone, Jon forced himself into a sitting position as he rubbed the last of sleep from his eyes. Illuminated by the warm haze of torchlight he deciphered Aegon’s rumpled appearance, raising an eyebrow at the state of him. “What’s the meaning of this? Pray tell you have reason for…whatever this may be.”

Aegon fixed him with an unreadable expression that Jon would almost mistake for grief were it anyone else. “It’s the King. Pycelle is summoning all of us now, fool that he is. I suppose his senses have finally returned to him and he’s no longer prolonging the inevitable.” He punctuated the words with a haughty sniff, likely out of disdain for having been risen from slumber as opposed to any warm feelings towards the King.

Jon himself held no feelings of familial love towards their kingly grandfather. He blinked slowly, taking it all in. “I see,” he said at last, and Aegon nodded grimly. The soft light cast a warm haze over his platinum hair and gave his amber eyes a conflagrated appearance to them. Jon reached blindly in the dark and without a word his half-brother held the torch outwards to illuminate the rest of the room, his lips quirking in the ghost of a smirk at Jon’s grunt of gratitude. He slipped into a simple tunic and cloak, ignoring the look of disapproval Aegon shot his way in the dark.

“Is that what you’re wearing, dear brother? It’s almost as though you _want_ the King’s last words to be about how gauche you are.”

“Come off it.”

Aegon snorted inelegantly but otherwise left the matter alone as they made their way to the King’s chambers in silence. The castle was dim and eerily quiet, save for the occasional idle chatter between guards or serving girls. Jon recalled fond memories of exploring these very halls with Rhaenys and Dany in his youth; Dany had always held tightly onto the leg of his trousers or the hem of her nieces’ skirt due to her fear of the dark. How simple it all was back then, and to think he had thought of his life as difficult at the time.

Of course, bastards were blights on society and faced trials that nobility and even the smallfolk knew little to nothing of.

“You were sleeping, I presume?”

Even in the relative darkness of the castle Jon could practically see his half-brother rolling his eyes at the question. Jon hadn’t asked out of any particular care – he had only exchanged pleasantries with Aegon since he’d stormed out of his chambers – but rather to make conversation.

“If one would like to call it that, yes. Why, brother? Is this jealousy I detect? Are you perhaps worried I came from Lady Sansa’s chambers?” Aegon knocked shoulders with him playfully, and now it was Jon’s turn to roll his eyes. The topic of his betrothed was one he would like to avoid, though he knew better than to make that known to Aegon.

“Hardly.”

“I’m positively _touched_ that you trust me in the company of your betrothed then, brother. Mayhaps we shall fetch her, to shall I say, _comfort_ you during this trying time?” He drawled, and from his shadow Jon saw his brother’s shoulders shaking with silent, barely repressed laughter.

“No,” he replied crossly, hoping to end the conversation as they rounded the corner to the King’s chambers. The guard let them in immediately, the smell of pure sickness clogging his nostrils as soon as they stepped into the room. Jon felt his face pull in disgust out of instinct, though Aegon, courtly as ever, remained unaffected.

The King lay in his bed, the sheets damp under him, rivulets of sweat running down his forehead. Aerys looked smaller, frail and fragile even, shielded by the flowing, matted silver hair that nearly reached his hips in old age. His beard nearly swallowed his face and Jon could see the stern, petulant mouth trembling under the fine hair. There were tatters in the sheets, strips of fabric slashed through, from the uncut talons Aerys called nails. Jon saw that his lips were moving; he was muttering something in a whimper, an undignified sound he never dared to utter when in better states.

Rhaegar and Elia stood beside him, their faces cold, stone masks. Viserys, Dany, and Rhaenys sat on the chaise in the corner of the room, watching the scene unfold with various expressions of unhappiness; Viserys was downright _livid,_ feverish eyes darting around the room in suspicion before zeroing in on Jon and looking upon him with even more loathing, if that was possible. Dany’s face was tearstained and appeared to be almost raw from crying, her slight frame shaking with silent sobs each breath. Rhaenys watched with stoic disinterest similar to her mother; no surprise there, Jon noted. Aerys had made his feelings towards his Dornish goddaughter and Rhaenys known.

Jon could not remember a time where they were all together. It was a most odd portrait, a disturbing farce of a family.

“ _You_ ,” Viserys snarled, lifting a bony, trembling finger in his direction. “Who sent for you, bastard?”

Jon dared not answer, not out of fear of Viserys, but because the question was one he himself had not taken into consideration. Why was he here? The King was never fond of him.

“Viserys,” Rhaegar’s voice, quiet and stern, had Viserys’ eyes snapping from Jon to the Prince, where they narrowed in contempt. “You will calm yourself at once, or be escorted to your chambers, if you continue to act so caught up in your grief.”

Viserys’ mouth – just as pouty as Aerys’ had been, and nearly always twisted in a frown – gaped open and closed as he considered the Prince’s threat. “There is no reason for _it_ to be here, as His Grace has never—“

Whatever Viserys had been about to say was thankfully cut short as the King let out a great, hacking cough that sent Pycelle (who Jon suspected had long since perfected the art of sleeping while remaining upright) scurrying to his side immediately, thrusting a basin to his face where he proceeded to sick up in it. “I believe it is, ah, imperative we do not cause any _upset_ to His Grace while in such delicate health.” The Grandmaester croaked, sending a serene smile their way that Viserys rolled his eyes at.

Jon found the situation at hand completely bizarre. Were there one thing for he and Viserys to agree on, it would be that Pycelle was a bumbling old fool. He observed with morbid fascination as Aerys shot bile into the basin once again with a great _CAW_ that was not unlike a dragon when spitting fire, Jon was sure. The old man curled into himself, his whispered words increasing in fervor. “Burn them...” what might have once been a victorious roar was now reduced to a pitiful rasp. “Burn them all!”

A sickness of the stomach, Pycelle had claimed this was; Jon wondered if the Grandmaester saw it fit to examine the mind as well, or if perhaps he was not as foolish as he looked.

The basin went clattering to the floor, narrowly avoiding splattering Rhaegar with blood. His father’s lip curled in distaste. “Grandmaester, perhaps it is time for some calming tonic.”

Someone let out a sob. Jon saw that it was Dany, who promptly threw herself on the King’s bed, clutching his frail hand in hers. Her hand was almost bigger than the King’s, now.

“Of course, of course,” Pycelle hummed in agreement. His shaky fingers remained surprisingly steady as he poured a generous amount of…something – what Jon could assume was tonic – into a vial and passed it to the Prince. “You will do the honors, then?”

His father took it with a grim nod, his face softening as he looked down at Dany. Even Jon could admit that she looked so much younger, holding the hand of her grandfather like a drowning man would. He would comfort her later; to do so now would only draw Viserys’ ire.

Aerys let out another pained howl, Dany was whimpering, pitiful little whispers of ‘Papa, please, papa’ and the Prince seized the opportunity to pour the contents of the vial into the open mouth of the King. Aerys reared back immediately, some of the liquid dribbling down his chin, but it was too late. “You dare betray the dragon, boy?”

“Please, Your Grace, it is best to not speak,” Pycelle tried feebly, but Aerys cut him off with a hoarse yell. 

“Traitors, the lot of you,” he was whispering, his purple eyes a pale lilac in their illness, though the manic gleam remained ever present. “Traitors who deserve nothing but the flames…you shall be reduced to ash for your failures, failures against your House and against your King. You deserve to burn, all of you!” Aerys sagged back against the sheets, his strength leaving him with each word. His eyes slid shut slowly, the way a tired babe’s might. “Burn them,” he croaked out in a whisper, his last words leaving him in a breathless gasp. “Burn them all.”

It remained quiet save for the sound of Dany’s ever increasing sobs. Jon shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed.

“Well?” Viserys rounded on Pycelle, who blinked as though he’d forgotten they were all there. “Are you going to see to it and check his life’s blood, or are you awaiting a fucking gilded invitation?”

The Grandmaester made a small cough of apology and shuffled over to the bedside of the King, where he checked his wrist and pulled back sagging eyelids. Those eyes, once full of madness and blazing hatred, looked almost serene now. It disturbed Jon; Aerys was never a calm man. Pycelle tutted and turned to them with a somber expression. “The King is dead. Long live the King.”

Dany let out another heartbreaking sob and a whimper of ‘no!’, muffled against Aerys’ beard. Jon, Aegon, and Viserys turned to Rhaegar and dropped to their knees, offering a chorus of ‘My King’ that Viserys all but spit out as though the word was poison, just as Rhaenys bowed in a dainty curtsey.

Jon could not help but notice that Viserys was eyeing Rhaegar with more contempt than usual, his eyes darting between all of them and the Grandmaester in suspicion. The room stood quiet as a Sept, broken by the occasional sound of Dany’s sniffling.

 

“All hail King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and of the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Destroyer of the Usurper, Protector of the Realm!”

The room broke out into a symphony of cheers and applause, Jon joining them halfheartedly as he watched his father ascend, smiling and waving at the crown as though he was born to do so. He was, quite literally. The High Septon placed the crown of intricate dragons atop his gleaming head, and beside him, Elia stared up at her husband with more adoration than Jon had ever saw her muster.

“Do cheer up, brother,” Aegon chided from his spot next to him. “This is a joyous occasion. Smile, for once.” He sent Jon a lascivious smile and at once Jon knew what he was about to ask. “Or are you looking for your Lady?”

“Leave it,” he snapped, much to Aegon’s amusement as the other man let out a chuckle. Truthfully he did not know where Lady Sansa was; he thought he’d caught a glimpse of her auburn hair somewhere in the crowd, perhaps with one of the numerous Sand Snakes he knew to be in attendance, though he was not about to search for her now. They hadn’t uttered so much as a word to one another since their conversation in the gardens, and for that Jon was glad. Far too much was going on, now, and he didn’t need an added distraction or additional stress.

He’d never wanted for a wife, anyway. There were certain…luxuries, privileges, which bastards were not privy to. Jon had made peace with that long ago. The court made sure he had.

“For my first act as King, I declare my son, Jaehaerys Targaryen, to be legitimized; and in doing so, he will be eligible for the throne after Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys!”

The crowd collectively quieted at once, not even gasps of surprise leaving anyone’s mouths. Time stood still.

And then hesitant clapping, which in turn grew louder, before reaching a crescendo of full applause. Jon was not aware his mouth had dropped open until Aegon smirked and murmured, crystal clear in his ear despite the buzz of the crowd, “Are you leaving behind legitimacy to catch flies as a troupe act, brother?” leaving him to promptly close his mouth, though he remained no less dumbfounded.

 _Legitimacy_. It had a nice ring to it, Jon could admit, though he was aware of what the act truly was. Another political move by his father, yet another way of making him a pawn of some sort. Legitimizing him would not erase the torment, the years endured as a bastard, and it was offensive that his father believed it ever would.

Jon shook his head. Of course Rhaegar did not do this out of the kindness of his heart. Nothing he ever did came from true kindness; everything was double edged because Rhaegar cared not a whit for any of them except for when they were useful for his own agenda.

This was a way to exert control, Jon was sure of it.

Viserys beside him clapped slowly and deliberately, the act at odds with the sneer twisting his lips; he looked as though he was ready to combust, while next to him, Dany gave him an encouraging smile that Jon found it difficult to return.

He couldn’t swallow, his throat dry. “Pardon,” he muttered to Aegon before pushing his way away from them, away from the crowd, away from everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of updates. i've had little to no inspiration to write for this fic, but i'm back now? kinda? idk! i hope you all enjoy this chapter and jon's emo ass self :)

**Author's Note:**

> please, don't forget to comment! let me know whatcha think :) next chapter is Sansa's pov~


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